Exercising My Right to Write: A Collection
by Gabriel Gatsby
Summary: This is a collection of prompt-inspired drabbles, with no particular focus or aim except to carry on writing. Each story will likely have a new focus, offering you a small slice of someone's life. [5/80 completed] (Warning: character death)
1. Author's Note

**A/N: **This is going to be a collection of drabbles (80, to be precise) written for the 'Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge'. I have no plans to make them related, but I will be going where the plot bunnies take me, so I am literally promising nothing. My challenge is to have all 80 drabbles written by April 30th.

If you like, please do follow for more, or if not – please do let me know why! Happy reading :) GG x

* * *

**The Prompts**

Burning Love [_adultery_] - Harry arrives home, to find things aren't as he left them. (Harry P / Ginny W / Dean T)

Fighting Immortality [_The Philosopher's Stone_] - It isn't natural, is it? Being brought back from the dead. It changes a person. (Harry P)

From Black to Black [_The First Wizarding War_] - Regulus has stolen the locket Horcrux, but as dust returns to dust, so must he face his fate. (Regulus B)

Waiting to Find Yourself [_Ginny Weasley_] - Ginny struggles to adapt to normality after the adventures of her first year at Hogwarts. (Ginny W / Hermione G)

Forging Foundations [_Rowena Ravenclaw_] - Three founders seek a fourth, could Godric be right; could this be the last? (Rowena R / Godric G / Salazar S)

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

_CC cover image (entitled 'balancing act part II') courtesy of Hannah Swithinbank on Flickr._


	2. Burning Love

Harry froze mid-step, his hand still on the door handle. For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, nobody moved. Harry felt as though even his heart had stopped beating, like the second before a plane hits the ground. In that moment, everything was perfectly still.

Then it all came crashing down. He felt his mind revolt and every muscle in his body tense. With rage, with hatred, with _disgust. _Harry's fist tightened on the brass doorknob he still clutched. He watched on as Ginny scrabbled for her clothes in the bed sheets, and Dean practically threw himself to the floor where his boxers lay.

Both looked shamefaced as they made hurried attempts to recover some modesty, all the while looking anywhere but at Harry. Inwardly, Harry's sea of emotions turned stormy and with each passing second his fist clenched tighter and tighter about the doorknob.

By the time Ginny stopped, finally having yanked on her jeans and dragged a crumpled blouse over her head, Harry's knuckles were white and his palm throbbed where the metal dug in. Ginny looked up just as the last ray of love Harry had ever felt for her was eclipsed from his heart, leaving him cold and empty.

Her eyes pleaded forgiveness, and his promised none. Without a word, Harry turned away, slamming the door behind him.

In the time it took him to descend the stairs and exit the front door, he was both out of the house and out of her life forever.


	3. Fighting Immortality

Harry's eyes flew open as he bolted upright in bed. His green orbs flashed in the darkness, his heart fluttered erratically in his chest. It took him a moment to realise that the shout that had woken him had been his own. As he dragged ragged breaths in through dry lips, adrenaline forced bile to his throat and he curled forward around his painfully cramping stomach.

Pressing his head to the cool outside of the sheets, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the darkness. It usually helped; the quiet, and the dark.

As the minutes ticked by, he slowly relaxed, and eventually he was able to force his scattered nerves back to some level of normalcy. Unclenching his fists, he took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and carefully eased himself back against the pillows.

It was the same. Always the same. Somehow, he had found himself in the Gryffindor tower, but the usually jovial room had been empty and still. Only the fire had been burning, and it cast out an eerie, ambient light. Deep shadows loomed at him, whispering dark things in his ears. And it had been there, lying on the hearth.

The Philosopher's Stone. Blood red, and glinting like the sharp edge of a sword, it had burned more fiercely than the fire beside it. And it had called to him. Always, he ached to reach out and grasp it. To take it up, and wield its awesome power. To live forever.

Unfailingly, he had had the same dream each night since the stone had brought him back, and unfailingly had fought it. It hurt to deny himself what he yearned for, it hurt to leave the stone where it lay. Sometimes he woke in cold sweats, others with a scream, but each time he forced himself down the same path.

Because even more than the pain, he feared the stone itself. He was afraid of what might happen if he picked it up. He was afraid of what it might do to him... What it already had done.

It had changed him, he knew. That night. There was something unnatural in being brought back from the dead, and it had altered a fundamental part of him. A part that made him good, and without it he was less than whole.

Yes, it hurt, but as he did every night when he sat in the dark after waking, he promised himself that tomorrow would be no different. Tomorrow he would deny himself again. Tomorrow he would wake again.

Never would he give in.


	4. From Black to Black

Regulus fell hard as he heaved uncontrollably, his raw throat screaming in agony against the compulsive hacking that wracked his lungs. He crumpled to his side as his limbs gave way to exhaustion, and what little light there was in the cave spun sickeningly around him. The pounding in his head reached a deafening crescendo almost smothering him beneath its weight, but he battled for consciousness. In the midst of it all, something in him demanded to be heard, and it called for survival.

Unwilling to give up life so soon, he uttered a savage cry as he forced himself to his elbows once more, and clawing in the dirt began to drag himself forward using any purchase he could find. His fingers bloodied as his nails caught on jagged rocks, and skin was flayed from his knees and stomach where he writhed over gnarly razor-sharp edges, but above the pain he could sense his salvation growing nearer. It was calling to him; if only he could sooth his burning throat with a sip from the lake. If only he could bathe his aching limbs in its cool waters.

He felt the paralysing effects of the potion within him, and his throat began to constrict as he hauled himself towards the water. Could this truly be his end? He wondered, as blackness began to creep in at the edges of his vision and he wheezed desperately through bloodless lips. With one last wrench, he collapsed beneath his own weight and sunk once again to the stone floor.

Darkness was rapidly closing in, and so with what dredges of life he had left to him, he extended one trembling hand towards the inky black depths…

And felt his fingertips brush cooling redemption. Instantly, its effects were upon him. Like a soothing balm, the silky waters wrapped themselves about his fingers, caressing his wounded skin and sending icy relief slithering up his arm. He gasped as it revived him, and he flexed his fingers sending tiny ripples darting out across the otherwise still surface of the lake.

Unbidden, a hoarse chuckle bubbled up and sighed from between his parched lips. He had done it, he would live yet; the lake would be his saviour. Bringing his wetted fingers to his mouth, he extended his swollen tongue and felt the cool liquid sooth everything it touched.

He laughed for joy, for life, and for having outsmarted The Dark Lord! Edging forwards once more, he leaned eagerly towards his own reflection, and cupped the clear water in his palm. Taking gulp after gulp he felt the refreshing elixir spread through his body, restoring his rotten lungs and corrupted heart. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed for the glory of it.

And then something was on him. His maniacal expulsion of joy turned to a sudden strangled cry. In a moment, his victory had been slain by a bony, black hand that wrapped itself unforgivingly tight about his wrist. He scrabbled to force its release; digging his splintered fingernails into its slippery flesh, but he could gain no purchase. The hand only squeezed tighter.

Panic turned quickly to pain as his bones were crushed beneath its infernal claw, and he released a wail of horror. Then there were more. They were rising out the water, as black as the lake they inhabited, and they grasped at his wrists, his arms, his cloak, his hair. He tried desperately to force his way back from the lakeside, but his hands slipped on the slick stone. Soon blood was welling from deep gashes, and still they grasped at him, pulling, and tugging, and _squeezing._

"_No!_" he cried into the darkness, but even before the last echoes of his cry had stopped resounding in the cavernous space, Regulus had been dragged beneath the surface and down to the deep depths of his watery grave.


	5. Waiting to Find Yourself

Ginny stared absently out of the window. In the grounds below Gryffindor Tower, tiny specks floated in a sea of green. Ordinary people living out their perpetually ordinary lives. She shifted her gaze, to look beyond the specks, searching out something more. She could make out the Forbidden Forest from here, but it held none of the wonder that it had during her first year at Hogwarts. Now it was simply another shade in the landscape, extending from the equally as unremarkable green of the fields below. More and more of the same. She lifted her eyes again and peered into the distance, beyond the grounds, beyond the Forbidden Forest…

Nothing, she decided. There was nothing for her beyond this, and yet somehow nothing for her here, either. Sighing, she turned from the window and was about to stand when she realised she had no where she wanted to go, any more than she wanted to remain where she was.

So she sat. She sat, and she stared, and she waited.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time a gentle voice finally woke her from her reverie.

"Ginny?" it murmured.

It took her a moment to ease her cramped muscles back into motion, but she made no show of it as she raised blank eyes to a familiar frizz of brown hair. On further inspection, she also found a far-too-familiar look of concern, and this, as always, irked her.

She did try not to blame Hermione too much. She knew she couldn't have helped it; it was Harry who always had to get involved, not her. But still, when she found those doe eyes turned her way, she felt resentment rear its ugly head. How dare she look at her like that? As though she understood, as though she could possibly comprehend. As though she felt sorry for her.

She had seen it plastered over the faces of countless others, too. Poor little Ginevra Weasley, tricked by the Dark Lord. So unfortunate. So naïve. Wasn't it lucky, though, that Harry Potter was there to save the day?

Her mind sneered at the thought. So little they knew, about who had truly robbed her of her innocence. Of her happiness. Of herself. Sure, Harry had saved her, but from what? He had taken her from the clutches of something extraordinary, _someone _extraordinary, and delivered her to this. To safety, perhaps, but also to boredom. To endless days of nothing, and feeling lost in her own life.

"Do you want to talk about it?" was the next insult to her presumed mental state. But she knew the pause had been too long; she had welcomed it with her silence.

So, now, she shook her head. She shook her head, she smiled as best she could, and then on she waited.

* * *

It was much in this way that the first six months of Ginny's second year at Hogwart's School for Witchcraft and Wizardry passed. Sometimes she sat, sometimes she stared, sometimes she smiled - when forced, she sometimes even laughed, but always, always did she wait.

It wasn't until part way through the next term that she finally found what she was waiting for; a golden opportunity. Still, she had to be sure, and so on she watched, and on she waited…

Until one day, Hermione emerged into the girls' dorm of Gryffindor Tower to find Ginny waiting for _her._ The waiting, then, was up.

Ginny launched herself across the room at the older girl, and impulsively Hermione threw her arms up to protect herself. As they connected and Ginny began scrabbling at her, Hermione instinctively fought back through her bewilderment.

They grappled for a few moments, each pressing for dominance, but Ginny had the element of surprise and Hermione felt something constricting about her throat where Ginny clutched her; she soon found herself choking for air.

As the brunette struggled for oxygen, she quickly relaxed what little grip she had gained, her fingers instead flying to her throat where she groped at whatever was restricting her. It dug in, too deep and too thin to get her fingers beneath, but feeling her give up, Ginny stopped fighting too and with one last hard yank Hermione came free and crumpled to the floor.

Gasping for breath, she heaved where she fell for a few moments, before eventually turning incredulous eyes upon Ginny. As she did though, and each stared back at the other, she felt disbelief burn up in the wake of alarm.

Ginny stood before her, and the picture she made was terrifyingly unfamiliar. A thin red line streaked her cheek where Hermione must have caught her during their tussle, and a single drop of blood wept from the wound. Plastered over her young lips was a smirk of satisfaction unlike any she had ever seen Ginny wear before. She let her gaze continue to travel, from her face, along her outstretched arm, to her clenched fist.

And then, Ginny remarked with satisfaction, only _then _did she understand.

Hanging from its chain, glinting in the candlelight, was the Time Turner.

"No, Ginny – Gin, no-!" Hermione began, but she was too late.

In a flash, Ginny Weasley was gone. To another time, and another place; to happiness, her old self – and if not the irrecoverable innocence of childhood, at least (at long last) to Tom.


	6. Forging Foundations

She doesn't trust him. That much, at least, is clear. Godric is smiling hopefully, as of course he would be; a truly great wizard, but a tendency to blind bravery makes his judgement questionable at times.

"So, what do you think?" he asks, but Rowena is still staring down the newcomer with a contemplative gaze.

"Slytherin, you say?" she questions casually, despite obviously having heard the first time, and the well-pruned man before her nods in response.

"Yes, Salazar Slytherin," he affirms, before adding _almost_ conversationally, "I've heard of your many accomplishments." It's not a compliment, she recognises. He's stating the facts; weighing up her response just as she's weighing up his. More likely he's wondering how much truth is really in what he's heard.

"An old name," is all she says in return. It's not a question, and so he says nothing. Between their extended silences, Godric glances at each of them expectantly; oblivious of the mental war being waged.

Still, she thinks, the prophecy said there would be four. Only with the four, could their dream be actualised.

And she didn't have to trust him. Really, it was brains she needed. Someone to scheme with; someone who could help her realise their plans. Godric was brave, and Helga was kind, but they were missing a piece of the puzzle. She needed to find out if he was it.

"A badger, a lion and a raven," she began. "The badger is blind, the lion stupid, but the raven cannot kill. Together, what do they seek?" It's a nonsense riddle, she knows. There is no right answer. Still, he looks unruffled at her challenge, and only pauses momentarily before answering.

"A serpent with a silver tongue," is his reply. A nonsense answer, to match a nonsense riddle. It has a hidden meaning, though, she knows, and it isn't lost on her.

For a moment, she says nothing. Then, she smiles.

Extending a hand, she offers her welcome, "A pleasure. Let us hope to build a glorious future together."

"Together," he agrees, as she grips his hand perhaps a little firmer than necessary.


End file.
